


Obsession

by wildwordwomyn



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alcohol, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-03
Updated: 2007-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwordwomyn/pseuds/wildwordwomyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Man-man porn, romance, gay erotica, a little comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, not really up on their backgrounds so forgive the creative license I took with Jared's granddaddy. First person through Jared's eyes.

The thing about Jensen Ackles is he purses his lips. A lot. But only when he’s acting, which is weird to me. He doesn’t even know when he’s doing it either. We’ll just be saying our lines, feeding off each other’s energy, and then there they go. Automatic habit. I counted once and got up to 38. I told him about it and he looked grossed out. Not that I’d noticed but that he did it. I neglected to mention during that same conversation that I am now obsessed with those lips. Their fullness, their rosy color, the way they plump up when he’s upset…Oh, and his eyes. Greenish brown with flecks of gold, framed by the prettiest, longest lashes I’ve ever seen on another guy…Did I happen to talk about his hands yet? Because they’re kind of short and blunt, fingers wide, like a working man’s hands. Mine, on the other hand, are manicured-looking, almost girly. If they weren’t so large I mean. In case you haven’t already guessed I have a bit of a man-crush on him. Been there since the day we met. He even teases me about it!

Jensen, or Jen as I call him, also likes to dress nice. He’s usually in jeans and a decent shirt when we shoot, but when he cleans up? Most handsome devil in the room. One time for a publicity shoot he wore this black long sleeve button down and grey slacks. And the slacks were…Let’s just say they fit his form well. Of course, they also showed off his _package_ just a little. In one of the pictures we have an arm around each other. He’s turned a bit toward my side. We’re both smiling because he’d been telling a really bad joke beforehand. And his package, well, looks like it’s saying hi to me. It was hard (no pun intended) not to notice. When I saw the picture it was the first detail that caught my eye. We laugh about it whenever people bring it up but now I just…Sometimes I think about that part of him, too, and I wonder when a man-crush, which is nothing, becomes a full-blown crush. Because I think maybe I’m borderline, on the edge, about to fall head over heels before I can catch myself…

“Why are we out here again?” he asks grumpily. It’s already a warm summer morning and it’s only 7. We’re outside on the edge of the set, sitting in chairs as the production crew fixes…something…

“Technical difficulties. Something wrong with audio, I think.” I look over at him, smiling. It’s too early for the man, that’s clear. His chin’s in his hand, elbow on his knee as he leans forward.

“Couldn’t they have found that problem before we got here? An _hour_ ago?”

I laugh. Can’t help it. A sleepy, uncaffeinated Jen is a cranky Jen. He hates that I get amused by his Oscar the Grouch routine but it’s funny as hell. And cute…Yeah…About 3 or more cups of coffee and he’ll be fine. Until then he’ll be entertaining…And cute…Did I say that already?

“Unhh,” he groans, a little hoarse. He turns his face my way, chin still in hand, looking pitiful. Looking sexy…Um, yeah, okay?.....

“I’m gonna go get you some coffee, dude,” I say, pretending to feel sorry for him but really running away for a much needed minute.  

Of course, the minute didn’t last nearly long enough. As soon as the camera finally started rolling he was Dean and I was Sam, but in the back of my mind I catalogued little things to remember later when I was alone. Lip purses, soft smiles, steady gazes. Nothing romantic. I mean, hell, our characters _are_ brothers. But something spoke to me about those scenes anyway. I couldn’t completely focus on the acting. Looking into Jen’s eyes, being physically close to him. Understanding Sam’s love runs deep and strong for his brother. Understanding suddenly that my love runs just as deep, just as strong, for Jen. Only, these days, I can’t tell if it’s more platonic than romantic, or if I’ve just crossed that line now. If I didn’t know myself better I’d think I have…

“Beer?” We’re back at Jen’s place after a long day. He’s fully awake now and ready to rock. I’m tired, ready to go home, but here instead.

“Thanks,” I respond when he hands me a Michelob. We’re sitting on his living room floor in front of his 40 inch television, playing the latest Final Fantasy edition on his Game Cube. I’m winning by a mile, strangely enough.

I’ve already had 3 beers, which in itself is no big deal for me. However, I drank them fast and this one’s going down even faster. In other words, I’m getting drunk. On purpose. Not good at all. I do stupid shit when I’m drunk. Last thing I need is to lose control with Jen. Can’t stop myself, though. By now I’m buzzed and asking for more. He pauses the game, gets up, grabs what’s left of the 12 pack and sits the bottles beside me with an obvious look. Luckily he’s a little more reserved than I am and won’t ask what’s wrong. Although in my present state I might tell him anyway.

“Hey,” I say distractedly, “let’s play the guitar game!” I never remember what it’s called and I’m good at it but he wins every time. He also sings as he plays his game guitar. Hence my reason for playing, and losing to, him so often.

“Okay, Jay.” He raises an eyebrow when I finish the fourth beer and reach for a fifth. I pop the top with my keychain bottle opener and start chugging. He watches in silence, obviously unsure if he should be concerned. He should. When he sings…

He gets the other game guitar for me and puts the cartridge in the Game Cube. At first I’m okay. Feeling competitive and still sober enough to try to win. But the song comes on that he knows and likes, Stairway To Heaven by Led Zepplin, and he gets into it. Putting his whole voice into it…I slipped up once, told him I love when he sings, love how lost he gets in the lyrics and the melody. Fortunately he took it as a compliment. Now he sings for me all the time. That’s probably another reason I’m falling for him…Okay, now it’s official…

“Sing for me, Jen.” He smirks, lifts up the game guitar. “No, I mean for real. With a real guitar.” I’m now onto my sixth Michelob and very close to the wrong side of drunk. An hour and a half, it turns out, is simply not enough time to soak up 5 ½ beers. Well, 6 now. Yeah…

Jen goes to his bedroom to get his Ovation acoustic guitar. When he comes back he’s holding it gingerly by the neck, reminding me once again how precious it is to him. A gift given for his 23rd birthday from his friend Chris. He takes care of it lovingly. Partly because of Chris. Mostly because he loves playing it. He sits back down beside me, cross-legged, bony-kneed. When did he change into shorts?! Shit! Now I can’t stop looking at the sparse hair on his bowed legs and muscular thighs. I am so screwed!

He starts to play a song he and Chris wrote a few months ago for Chris’ band. I haven’t memorized the words yet but the slow, soft beat is now familiar, and his voice? He sings like he acts, with heart, with raw talent. Not the best but still fascinating to me. He closes his eyes, seducing me, unbeknownst to him, with his rough tenor. Gets me every time too. Swaying in time with his slight body rock. He can belt well, but the ballads, in that voice, coming from such a pretty face, such beautiful lips…I should go before I end up saying or doing something I’ll regret when I’m sober again. I know I should. My legs, apparently, have other ideas. They’ve turned to stone…No, I take that back. Not stone, because they’re moving now. In the wrong direction. I’m pushing my palms against the floor, lifting my hips to lean over and…kiss Jen. I’m kissing Jen…Huh…If I’d known I would’ve done this long ago…Oh, fuck! I’m _kissing_ Jensen Ackles! Not good! So not good! FUCK! What am I doing?!

“Jay!” he yells, pushing on my chest. When our lips unseal I realize my hand is on his thigh, almost under the hem of his shorts, my fingers hanging onto the inner softness.

“I’m sorry! Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Jen! Oh, Jesus!” I jump up, leave before he knows what hits him. I’m out the door, at my car, crying in such an uncool, hiccupy way, when his hand clamps down on my shoulder. He takes my keys under protest.

“You can’t drive. You’re drunk. If your mama knew I’d let you she’d kill me, then you…” I can’t look, won’t look, into his eyes. This humiliation brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘stupid’.

I follow him back inside, furiously wiping at the tears that keep filling my eyes, feeling lower than low. What’s worse, I’m now sober. I can’t hide behind excuses. And I never have been good at lying. I wonder if it would be hypocritical to start praying to God now. I mean I know it is, but I still wonder if doing it will help either of us at the moment. The lungfuls of air I’m inhaling through a stuffy nose certainly aren’t.

I rush to his bathroom once we’re back inside. I cry, blow my nose, cry more, blow more, breathe, blow once more. Then start the process over again. Last time I cried this hard was when my granddaddy died when I was fourteen. I hear Jen knock on the door once to check up on me but what do I say? I keep silent, keep breathing, keep praying that if God really can hear me He/She/It will help me out a little and make the next few hours less painful than I assume they’ll be. Once I’ve gotten some control over myself I leave the bathroom, leave that safety, and head to the living room where Jen is.

“Hey,” he says softly. He’s standing in the middle of the floor. Confused and shocked. Maybe even angry at how I’ve screwed up so monumentally.

“Hey,” I respond just as softly. As wrong as it is all I want right now is to crawl into his arms and have him tell me everything between us will be alright even though it wouldn’t be true.

“You okay?” He sounds so concerned, so caring that I have to bite back more tears.

“Yeah.” But I look down at the carpet when I say it. Slate blue carpeting, in case you’ve never been told, can make you see stars if you stare at one small section of it long enough…

“Liar…”

Before I can guess what he’s about to do he walks over, hugging me close. It’s the worst possible thing, because it’s the best. The strength in his arms, his tenderness as he holds me, the smell of his Old Spice deodorant and Head And Shoulders shampoo and him. That certain Jensen scent I’ve been smelling, and savoring, since we started working together. The rugged feel of his body against mine. How you can ‘go gay’ for anyone is a complete mystery. Yet I have for him. And I really don’t want him to let go. My arms finally raise, wrap around his shoulders as I sink into his warmth.

“I’m sorry, Jen,” I mumble into his neck. I’m trying not to cry again.

“I know.”

“Really sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“I fucked up…,” I sniffle, my eyes shut.

“I get it, Jay.”

“Bad. I fucked up really, really bad.” He doesn’t respond at first. A sure sign, I’m assuming, of how much he agrees.

“Jay?” he begins finally, quietly. “Say you’re sorry one more time and I’ll deck you, okay?” I nod into his shoulder. “Besides, I’m not that awful to kiss, am I?”

“Jen, no, man, you’re…you’re amazing and great and my best friend and I just-“

“Jay, just shuddup already!”

When he pulls away I think maybe I’ve lost him. For good. And I’m not all that sure I can handle that. Not having him in my life. He’s looking at me, into my eyes, with this unreadable expression on his face. I wish like hell I could understand it. It’s clear, though, that what I’ve done is irreversible to our friendship. He-

He leans back in and, before I can even attempt a guess at what’s coming next, kisses me. With tongue. As if he means it. As if he needs to. I kiss back because, really, what choice do I have? It’s Jensen Ackles. _The_ Jensen Ackles. Most beautiful man I’ve ever known. Only man I’ve ever wanted. Kissing me, another guy, his friend and co-star, without a hint of hesitation or fear. To stand there like an unmoved statue is not an option. But I have to know if it’s all for me, this newfound desire, or if he’s trying to give me what I want.

“Jen, I…You-?” I try when I find a way to break the kiss.

“Shh, don’t talk, ‘cause if you talk I’ll stop. And I don’t wanna stop. Just don’t ask…Or if you gotta ask, ask for something dirty, okay? Just don’t make us slow down and _think_ about shit…”

Okay, so, that thing I have for his lips? Now that I’m in direct physical, I mean sexual, contact with them? Amplify it by about a million. I’m hard and getting harder by the second. Him? Well, for his part he’s groaning into my mouth. His hands are getting in on it now, too. On my neck, in my hair, gripping my shoulders, traveling down my sides to my hips…Eventually one hand goes back to my head, grabbing at my hair painfully, while the other hurries to unbutton my jeans.

“Wait, I-“ This simply cannot be happening…He can’t want this…..Can he?

“No talking ‘less it’s dirty, remember? Like, ‘Suck my dick, Jen.’ ‘Fuck me, Jen.’ ‘Make me cum, Jen.’ You’re allowed to say shit like that.” He emphasizes his point by sucking on a spot of collarbone. “But that’s all you’re allowed. Got it?” I would answer if he wasn’t now fighting to take my shirt off. Instead, the action, his words, makes me unleash a very unmanly, high-pitched sigh.

I’m down to my plain white briefs, wishing I’d worn, owned, some sexier underwear. He undresses himself quickly. Let’s me find out through a wicked grin and a whoosh of material that he’s been bare-balling it today. He smirks and winks, **at the same damn time**, when I drink him in with my eyes. I set every detail in my memory bank for future recall. Little body hair. Freckles splattered across his skin.  The hard-earned muscular abdomen that rarely gets to display itself at work. That light brown trail of hair fanning, leading, down to a long, thick, pinkish dick. Brawny thighs begging for my tongue, especially on that silky-looking inner skin. Those bowed legs so thin and oddly sexy, making me wonder about certain sexual positions and their pros and cons…

“Jay? You just gonna stand there and stare?” I’m so caught up in the looking that what he’s saying sounds suspiciously like Swahili. I must look clueless, too, because he pulls my lower body into his. “I’m on a silver fuckin’ platter, dude,” he murmurs. “You gonna take advantage or do I have to beg?” This time a wink and an indulgent smile. That wakes me up.

“You offering yourself to me, Jen? Willingly?” I ask flirtatiously, yet completely serious.

In answer he kisses me again. Only this time he doesn’t stop. I don’t stop. I let my hands roam across the expanse of his chest. Tweak his nipples. Dip my tongue into his belly button. I taste him everywhere my mouth can reach. Unable to wait until we get to his bedroom I drop to my knees and take his dick slowly into my mouth, and am surprised at how good it feels as it fills my mouth, my throat.  I know my knees will be paying me back for little cushioning and lots of rug burn but I don’t care. And the words he uses to describe his pleasure, to direct me, are so damn hot I’m almost cumming already. Then he grabs my hair again and I can’t hold back. I love his grip, his obvious arousal, the knowledge that he’s pulling on my hair _because_ of what I’m doing. Suddenly he cusses like a sailor and cums down my throat. I shouldn’t, but I swallow every drop, and I like it. Like the tangy musk. Like being almost submissive in this moment. Like that it’s all about Jen.

“You wanna?” he asks, his voice gravelly, indicating reciprocation.

“Mm. I got somethin’ else in mind.” I’m the one wearing the wicked grin this time.

I take his hand, pull him down onto the floor with me and proceed to squeeze his ass cheeks as we make out in earnest.  Between kisses he complains about his knees and the carpeting. I shut him up by saying that if I can suffer, so can he. Well, I also squeeze again, a little harder. That might be the main reason why he gasps…I remind myself to take it slow, to make it last, because I might never have the chance to make love with him again, but I can’t. Everything keeps intensifying, speeding up, these moments sharpening into one single focus. Jen’s eyes. As long as he continues looking at me, into me, nothing else exists.

“God, Jen, I love you…” It slips out when he palms my dick. I freeze, wait for his reaction. It’s probably easier to handle than if I’d said, ‘I’m in love with you,’ but it’s still pretty awkward.

“..…Fuck……” He pulls away a little. Looks down at my dick in his hand. Looks back up into my eyes. “I love you, too.” Then he kisses me again.

Can’t tell how much he means it, if he’ll regret it in the morning, but it doesn’t matter. What does is that he’s still kissing me. Still touching me. And if his laying down, pulling me on top of him, grinding against my body doesn’t make it clear, I don’t know what will…


End file.
